Metacritic reviews

Perfect Strangers takes too much time to get to its big game — nearly its full first act is consumed by introductions and set dressing, most of it unnecessary, considering how believable the group’s chemistry is — but once it kicks into gear, the effect is dizzying.

The dialogue snaps with precision and cringe-worthy humor; at times, you feel like you're having one of those awkward moments in which you watch a couple bicker. The movie is delicately perched between low-key believability and telenovela melodramatics, yet never falls too far to one side.

Although it's enjoyable to make the acquaintance of the well-played, crowd-pleasing Strangers, the encounter is quickly forgotten.

It’s more tame than daring, at least that’s how Perfect Strangers plays north of the border. And the resolution is abrupt and unsatisfying. But the actors are uniformly superb, with Suárez and Bichir standing out.

It’s a simple, stripped-down premise that transcends cultural specificity.

Caro’s ability to localize what might feel broad shines through, even though he is operating within set storytelling boundaries.

This picture is well acted (one of the cast members, Manuel García-Rulfo, has a growing profile in Hollywood; he was seen last year in “Widows” and “Sicario: Day of the Soldado”) and maintains narrative interest without ever grabbing the viewer by the lapels.

Released in Mexico late last year, Caro’s seriocomic adaptation alternates between a tense, well-acted chamber drama and an at times overly didactic parable, but its focus on our newfound willingness to collect all of our darkest secrets behind such an easily pierced veil – do we realize how precarious that tightrope we’re walking is? On some level, are we secretly hoping we might fall? – provides for plenty of squeamish entertainment.

The farcical revelations — with their attendant puking and pounding on bathroom doors — work better than the grimly sincere ones. But only one bit goes clunk — the rest is deftly staged and acted.

Manolo Caro's film uses its characters as rigid markers of cowardice, lust, and entitlement.